Banana Bread
Georgia McHill’s first sign that today’s photo shoot was destined for spectacular failure should have been the 3 a.m. client text about cinnamon.
Not cinnamon shortages, not spice rack wipeout catastrophes. No. The client was panicking because she couldn’t find the exact brand of cinnamon powder she used for her one-of-a-kind, gourmet banana bread, and therefore, George quoted, “the flavor will be wrong in the photos.”
And that she’ll be shipping the breads for the shoot two hours later than scheduled because her chili powder is “in the mood,” whatever that means.
George had skimmed the message through bleary eyes, sent back a polite “we’ll make it work,” and rolled over.
Her second sign of doom came when she accidentally hip-checked her lighting rig, sending it crashing into her seamless paper backdrop and toppling a scented candle into the chaos.
A candle that set the said backdrop smoldering.
Now, her kitchen looked like the aftermath of a particularly small but extremely judgmental fire. The air was smoke-tainted, the counters were dusted with ash, and her carefully curated “rustic-chic” props were reduced to melted wax puddles and charcoal.
She stared at it all, iced coffee sweating in her hand.
Focus, George. This is totally fixable. In theory.
She grabbed her phone and scrolled through her contacts. She dialed Tash, her work best friend, lifesaver by default, and owner of a potentially, perpetually spotless kitchen located just a couple of streets away.
“Tash,” she said as soon as the call connected. “Disaster. Can I borrow your kitchen for a few hours?”
There was a pause, like maybe Tash had a mouth full of…something. “Uh. Sure. I was just headed to Mrs. Presley’s. Just…I have something going on. Don’t touch the thing in the middle of the counter, okay? I’ll leave the key under Mr. Gnomey. I’ll be back in an hour tops.”
Georgia didn’t ask. In friendship terms, that was a binding contract.
Half an hour later, she stepped into Tash’s house, headed straight to the kitchen, and nearly dropped her things.
The “thing in the middle” Tash warned her about was…a scene.
Black and red velvet tablecloths across the counter. Dozens of candles in varying heights, glowing in shades of deep red and soft pink. Intricate chalk patterns spiraling across the marble like a barista’s latte art gone full mural.
And, dead center, a large wooden board carved with runes.
“Wow,” Georgia muttered. “Somebody’s going hard for this year’s Valentine’s Day prep.”
She set down her gear, opened the courier’s box, and revealed four perfect loaves of golden banana bread, steaming gently, as though the box itself had been preheated. She plopped them right in the middle of the rune board, careful not to touch anything.
And because she was running on barely two hours of sleep and pure sarcasm, she said, “May this bread bring love to whoever eats it.”
The air shifted instantly.
The candle flames flared before a warm breeze slid past her, carrying a whiff of cinnamon and sugar so intense it could have been weaponized.
Then the lights shut off for a few seconds before flickering back to life.
Georgia froze. “Great…now a power surge? What next? Zombies?”
A deep voice behind her said, rich and warm as spices in mulled wine, “No. But your offering is accepted.”
Georgia turned and forgot how sentences worked.
The man standing barefoot in the kitchen looked like he’d been ripped from a romance novel and dropped into the middle of an IKEA catalog. Broad shoulders, sharp cheekbones, black hair that shimmered as though it was permanently catching candlelight. And eyes, deep and ember-red eyes, watching her like she was both dessert and destiny.
He looked at her before grabbing a slice of banana bread and taking a bite. The groan that came out of his mouth should’ve sent Georgia running, but she was annoyingly mesmerized.
“Bound to the hand that placed the offering,” he said, stepping forward and taking hers. His lips brushed her knuckles, his face radiating through her skin like a fever. “My heart, my soul, my forever.”
“O…kay?” Georgia blinked. “Is this part of the client’s marketing gimmick? Because I am so not paying for the model upgrade.”
He smiled, slow and sharp. “No gimmick, my beloved. I am Lucian. First Flame of the Ninth Circle. Keeper of the Oath-fire, sworn now to your service. In mortal terms…” He tilted his head, utterly earnest. “...I am your devoted boyfriend.”
“Oh no,” said a new voice.
Tash barreled into the room, hair wild and eyes wide. “George, what did you do? You didn’t put chili on the table, did you?
The man glanced at her, utterly unmoved. “It is too late. The bond is sealed.”
“Tash,” Georgia said slowly. “Why does your Valentine’s Day decor come with a half-naked man with wings? And horns?”
“Do they bother you, my beloved? I can look less demon if you’d like.” Lucian didn’t wait for her response and instead, conjured his special features away like email attachments.
Georgia shushed.
“It’s not decor,” Tash replied, grimacing. “Okay, so…I may have been dabbling in ‘manifest your soulmate’ magic for the last month. The ritual, according to a totally reliable occult blog, needs offerings. Like food. Something with cinnamon, clove, and just a whisper of chili. Supposedly, it ‘warms the spirit’ of you summoned beloved.’ I just went out to find chili.”
Her friend whimpered, slumping into the nearest chair.
“Oh, sure.” Georgia shrugged because her day wasn’t weird enough. “I’ve heard of that. It’s called Tinder.”
Tash stared at her. “You’re being too normal about this. You literally just summoned a demon who is obsessed with you. Exactly how much chili is in this thing?” She sniffed the banana bread.
Lucian squeezed Georgia’s hand gently, as though sensing the faint tremor of someone who’d been juggling disasters and deadlines all day. “My beloved, I will guard you from all danger. I don’t have my things with me. Pass me the butter knife.”
“You know what? I don’t care.” She threw her hands up in surrender. “I am on a deadline, and I need this job.”
She pointed at Lucian. “Just stay there. Don’t distract me. And for the love of all the things holy, stop calling me your beloved.”
She tried to work. Really, she did. But she was so tired her brain kept trying to auto-save over reality. And Lucian, who looked extremely aware of her reduced processing power, was exploiting it.
When she adjusted the lights, he positioned himself in the beam so it kissed his cheekbones like a soft-focus commercial.
When she framed a shot of the bread, he slid into the background, holding a single slice to his mouth, biting into it like it was a love scene in a telenovela.
Once, she bent down to get an overhead shot, and he knelt beside her, holding a piece of banana bread to her lips.
“Eat, my beloved, so your hands may be steady.”
She swatted the bread away. “I’m working.”
“I will stand sentinel over you ovens.”
“Stop it.”
“I will protect you from ill fortune, including soggy bottoms.”
“Tash, you can keep him.”
“You are my light, my yeast, my rising.”
She shot him a flat look. “You do know I didn’t bake that bread you’re salivating over, right?”
But it was like she was speaking to a wall because Lucian just leaned closer, lowering his voice just for her. “And when you have finished your work, I will make you tea, because mortals grow weary.”
She blinked at him. “Tea?”
“I have observed your kind,” he said simply. “Tea helps.”
She didn’t want to admit it, but that was actually very sweet.
“Shirtless bread model,” she muttered. “Fine. We’ll make it work.”
At one point, the client called for a preview shot and some samples. Without asking, Lucian grabbed her phone. “Your patron is safe in my care.” The client hung up immediately.
By the time Georgia finished, Tash was sulking in the doorway, arms crossed. “This is the worst Valentine’s Day planning of my life.”
She clicked through her shots on the camera screen. They were phenomenal. Maybe one of the best she’d ever taken. The lighting was flawless. The bread looked like it belonged on a magazine cover.
The back of her neck prickled. And just as suspected, Lucian was staring at her like she might disappear.
“Do you literally have nowhere else to be?”
“I am tied to you, my beloved. Where you are is where I must be, too.”
She sighed. “All right. Suit yourself. You can stay and be bored until I finish packing up.”
Lucian smiled, a little too warmly, and stepped closer. “Beloved, I will stay until the stars burn cold and the ovens of time go out.”
Then he leaned in, clearly aiming for a kiss.
Georgia, running purely on diluted caffeine and stubbornness, shoved her tripod into his hands. “Cool. You’re also carrying this.”
He blinked. Then scooped her up bridal-style, tripod and all.
She groaned. “Put me down. I have to pack the bread.”
“I will carry you,” he said simply. “For you carry my heart.”
Tash’s muffled groan was loud enough to register as background noise.
Lucian set her gently on the counter instead of the floor, then proceeded to help her pack the loaves, moving with ridiculous precision so he didn’t smudge a crumb. “It would be unworthy of me to let your art be damaged,” he said quietly. And for a moment, the smolder faded into something softer.
Georgia caught herself staring. Again. No. Sleep deprivation is either giving her butterflies in the stomach or indigestion.
When the last loaf was wrapped, Lucian held the box out like it was a crown jewel. “Your work is worthy of the heavens, beloved.”
“Right,” she muttered. “Question. If I decide to return a defective beloved, how do I contact the customer service representative? Light a bottle of Tabasco on fire?”
He actually smiled at that, a real, completely non-romance cover smile. “No returns. But I come with a lifetime guarantee, free repairs, and customizable swoon.”
Tash groaned again. “Great. You summoned the only demon in the Ninth Circle who thinks he’s a Hallmark card.”
Georgia took the box and headed for the door. “I’ll put this in the car. I’ll be right back.” She looked at Lucian. “You can stick around. Just…don’t touch the props. Don’t eat the bread. And stop swooning in my beam light unless I say so.”
Lucian fell into a step beside her, expression somewhere between adoration and smug triumph. “Your wish is my command…”
She cut him off with a glare.
“...my favorite mortal,” he finished instead. And before she could think of another quip, he leaned down and kissed her. “Now, it is for eternity.”
It was quick, just a warm press of lips carrying a faint taste of cinnamon and chili, but steady, like he’d been waiting centuries to get it right.
Georgia blinked up at him, too tired to process the fact that her first kiss in months had come from a barefoot supernatural bread model. “What is?”
“Our bond, my beloved.”
“Seriously, stop that.” She sighed. “You know what? Whatever makes you happy. I am tired. And you’re way past the return window anyway.”
Lucian grinned like a man who thought he’d just won a lifetime supply of her.
Tash muttered something about moving to another continent to try another incantation.#
